


smile for the camera

by zefive



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Amputation, Gen, Kidnapping, Panic Attack, Post The End, Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-25 13:34:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14978234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zefive/pseuds/zefive
Summary: Matt gets kidnapped.It's not fun.





	1. kidnapping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> decided to do a [whump bingo](https://badthingshappenbingo.tumblr.com/about) over on my [ew tumblr](http://ewze.tumblr.com/post/175021363018/okay-so-im-gonna-be-doing-a-thing-that-up), and this is for the **kidnapping** prompt. feel free to send me one too!  
> 

There’s blood in his mouth.

That’s the first thing Matt really registers- the sharp, coppery taste of blood, like pennies on his tongue, like rust and steel.

He blinks- slow and sticky, like melted candies. The world feels heavy. Sluggish. Not real.

“-waking-”

He blinks again; squeezes his eyes together, this time, and breathes in. Nearly chokes on the blood and saliva that’s pooled together in his mouth, and he lurches forward ( _can’t_ ) and coughs, hacking out what feels like half a lung.

His head _burns_ , pain clawing its way up from his spine, and Matt gasps, tiny and wet, and tries to curl together, because _everything hurts_.

Except he can’t.

He _can’t_.

Matt whines, forces his eyes open- everything is a dark blur around him, and he squints down at himself, tries to lift his hand to paw at whatever’s stopping him from curling up and never, ever, moving again.

His hand doesn’t budge- and now panic creeps in, slow and dark, and there’s a hitch in his breathing, a hiccup of fear. He sits up straight, blinking his eyes to clear the blur and-

And oh god, he doesn’t know where he is.

He’s sitting on a chair in the middle of a big, empty room, made up of concrete and shipping crates, and he’s _bound_ \- ropes around his legs and his wrists, tying him to the chair, and he doesn’t recognize anything, doesn’t remember _getting here_.

“Edd?” Matt calls out, except it warbles together in his mouth, comes out as nothing more than a choked squeak. His throat burns, dry and painful.

_Don’t panic_ , he tells himself, even though his breathing is shaking in his chest, and he doesn’t _know where he is_.

“You’re awake.”

He jerks. The ropes chafe at his wrists, and the chair wobbles on its leg, and there is _fear_ , vivid and bright in his chest, a gaping maw ready to swallow him whole.

The speaker laughs. There’s an echo of steps beneath the sound, and Matt curls his shoulder, stares wide-eyed as a person steps out of the din.

Matt doesn’t recognize him.

He’s tall, dark-haired; smiles like he has fangs in his mouth, like he wants to bite and gnaw and _eat_ \- something about him makes Matt’s skin prickle, makes the fear clump together in his throat like bile.

He might not know this person, but every alarm bell in his head is going off, ringing out a clear and loud _**danger**_.

Too bad there’s nothing he can really _do_ about it.

“Took you long enough,” the stranger says, all casual and offhand, like they’re meeting at a party, and bantering over drinks. Like Matt isn’t tied to a _chair_.

Matt swallows. His throat burns still, and the taste of blood lingers, but he can’t just stay _quiet_.

“Who are you?” he asks, and it’s still hoarse and squeaky, but at least it comes out.

The stranger shrugs; moves closer, steps sure and purposeful, and he doesn’t stop when he’s within arm's-reach. Instead he circles around Matt like a shark, hand reaching out to grasp at the back of the chair.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, right behind Matt- he’s close enough that Matt can _feel_ him, dark and towering, a living shadow aching to dig its claws into him. “What _matters_ , is you.”

The stranger steps around to his left- tiptoes his fingers along Matt’s shoulder, and it makes his skin _shiver_ , prickle with uneasy fear.

“I don’t-” the words stutter in his throat. “-understand, what’s- _why_ -”

And in a fluid, fast, movement, there’s a hand around his throat, snapping him back into the hard edge of the chair, and Matt chokes- chest heaving up in surprise and shock, and the stranger is staring down at him with dark eyes, and a smile on his face so _fake_ it’s acidic.

“Shut the fuck up,” he says.

Matt gurgles. It’s all he _can_ do- the hand is an iron-grip around his throat, squeezing it close, and he can’t breathe- _can’t think_ -

Can’t do anything but wheeze, eyes wide, welling up with tears.

And then the hand is gone.

Matt gasps, back arching- then collapses forward, coughing and hacking, pink tinted saliva spattering across the floor between his shoes, and he is barely aware of the tears dripping down his cheek.

“Now,” the stranger says, tone once again casual as can be. “I want you to look at this-” and he’s shoved back upright, hand curling iron-tight at the space between his shoulder and neck. “and confirm to me that it’s you.”

Matt wheezes- wrestles his breathing back under control, and _tries_ to ignore the taste of blood, and the burn, and the _fear_ , like tar in his lungs. Blinks.

There’s a picture held before his face. Slightly blurry, like whoever was taking it couldn’t keep it completely steady. It’s at an angle, and for a very long second, Matt doesn’t even recognize Tord.

Because that’s who it is.

Tord, hair swooped into that _stupid_ style of his, grin wide and easy and infectious- Matt’s gut twists in on itself, turns over, because it’s _Tord_ , and he’s supposed to _hate him_ , but-

Looking at him, the only thing Matt feels is a hollow kind of sadness.

The hand on him tightens, nails digging into his skin, and Matt winces- forces himself to look away from Tord’s face, and focus on the other person in the picture, and that’s-

Freckles across the cheeks, face split in a smile. An arm thrown around loosely Tord’s shoulder. It’s _him_.

There’s a clump in his throat, heavy and tight, and Matt looks up at the stranger, and feels the empty ring of fear settling into his bones.

“Where’d you get this?”

He sounds small.

His captor- because that’s what he _is_ \- smiles, teeth filling up the space of his face. “That’s all I needed.”

And he’s thrown back- the chair tips and he crashes to the ground, a clatter of sound and wood digging into his back, and Matt squeaks- tries to turn, but the chair’s keeping him grounded, and he can’t _move_ -

There’s a whoosh of air , and his head snaps backward, a _crunch_ snapping through his skull. Blood wells up quick, and Matt strangles himself on the cry, eyes frantically finding his attacker.

His captor draws his foot back; steps forward, easy as can be, and kicks out again- catches him in the side, and Matt can’t swallow the gasp of pain that builds up in then.

Another kick- Matt whines, and claws at the ground where his hands are being squished up against the pavement, and he’s crying, salt and snot and blood mixing together, and his nose is _broken_ , and there’s pain radiating all over his body.

Another kick to his face- blood arches through the air, splatters across the pavement, and Matt warbles on a sob, nails catching on the ground and tearing beneath the strain. His breath is loud in his ear.

His captor steps forward instead of lounging out, this time- reaches down to fist a hand in the front of Matt’s shirt, and pulls him back upright. The man settles him there, pats his cheek. Blood smears on his palm.

“Had to rough you up a bit,” the man says, like it’s nothing personal. “Gotta get his attention _somehow_ , don’t we?”

Matt sobs; wishes he could explain that he and Tord aren’t _friends_ \- that Tord stabbed them in the back, that Tord’s _gone_. But all that comes out is gasps and sobs, strings of blood.

“Alright then,” the man says, steps back- there’s a slight rustle, and then, like it’s _funny_. “Smile for the camera.”

Matt lifts his head, face and front smeared with blood, and the camera _clicks_.

  



	2. hostage video

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part two of this little thing, still for the [whump bingo](https://badthingshappenbingo.tumblr.com/about) i'm doing over over on my [ew tumblr](http://ewze.tumblr.com/post/175021363018/okay-so-im-gonna-be-doing-a-thing-that-up). this one is for the **hostage video** prompt. feel free to send me one too!  
> 

Matt’s been gone for eight days.

They hadn’t noticed, not at first. Not until the sun had set and Edd was making dinner, and Matt’s seat was empty and vacant, and that’s when the worry had started.

It’s been eight days.

Eight days of searching and talking to the police, of putting up missing posters and talking to the neighbours, and Edd is _tired_.

It’s been eight days, when the doorbell rings.

Edd’s splayed out on the couch, Ringo curled up by his side, and a part of him doesn’t want to move- Tom’s upstairs, locked himself away in his room, and the house is quiet and hollow.

The doorbell continues ringing.

“Fine,” he mutters, raises his hands to press them against his eyes. Ringo trills, raising her head to peer up at him, and even now, the sight makes Edd smile.

“It’s okay baby” he says, gently scratching her head. “Just the door.”

The doorbell rings again, loud and annoying, and Edd rolls his eyes, forces himself up: “I’m coming!” he shouts, and Ringo curls her tail around herself, watches him pad to the door with half-lidded eyes. “Calm _down_ , jeez.”

He opens the door, a greeting half-formed on his tongue, and goes stock still when he sees who’s behind it.

It’s Tord.

It can’t be anyone _but_ Tord- swoopy hair and flat eyes, and a _stupid_ anime-esque coat, and for a long, long second, Edd can’t do anything but stare.

The right side of Tord’s face is a mess of straggly scars and torn skin, and there’s a clump in Edd’s throat, emotions he can’t quite pin down churning in his gut.

Anger. Relief. Something sharp and bitter, that cuts at his chest and wraps its claws around his heart.

“Tord,” he says, and it comes out flat, hollow.

Tord inclines his head. “Edd.”

For a while, they just look at each other- there’s a tension between them, something palpable Edd doesn’t particularly want to face.

“It’s a bad time,” he says instead, and Tord nods, like he _knows_.

“That’s why I’m here,” Tord says, and looks over his shoulder- it’s the first time Edd really registers that Tord’s not _alone_. That there’s another, vaguely familiar looking guy there, clad in the same uniform Tord is wearing, a cigarette unlit between his teeth. “It’s about Matt.”

Edd snaps his eyes back to Tord. Feels a rush of something _acid_ well up in his gut, swell up in his throat like bile.

“What did you _do_ ,” he snarls, and he’s stepping forward, closing in- he itches to curl his fingers in Tord’s uniform, to shake him, to peel away this- this _imposter_ and get the real Tord back, and that’s the mess of it, isn’t it?

Tord stabbed them in the back, and Edd still _misses him_.

“I-” for a second, Tord looks genuinely surprised at the accusations. And then it’s gone, back behind a flat expression, like there’s nothing in his head, and Tord straightens his spines and says: “It would be easier to show you, than try and explain it. May we come in?”

_No_ , Edd wants to say. Except this is about _Matt_ , so Edd forces himself to step back, to let them in.

“I’ll get Tom,” he says, and doesn’t look back as he hurries up the stairs.

* * *

Getting Tom down takes nothing more than a “it’s about Matt,” and then they’re all collected in the living room, and it’s familiar, painfully so.

All they need is Matt, and it’d be like it used to be.

“What is it,” Tom says, hunched in up himself, all prickly and sharp. His eyes are glued to Tord, and it’s not a good kind. It’s the kind that’s the uptick to a storm, to a fight- and normally Edd would have broken that up, but why _should_ he do that now? What does it matter?

He sighs. Leans back in the couch, and wishes Matt was here- wishes Matt hadn’t disappeared at all, because then Tord wouldn’t have been here, and everything would have been _fine_.

Tord and the guy trades glances. Their faces are grim, serious, and Edd hadn’t really thought about that, but now it’s-

“Tord,” he sits up, and there’s a twist in his gut again, something not related to Tord at all. “What’s going on?”

Tord sighs. His shoulders drop, his face softens into emotions. He looks _haggard_ , looks worried. And the twist in Edd’s gut worsens into something live and sick, heavy with dread and threads of fear.

“Seven days ago, I got a picture.”

Tord looks away from them. Looks out the window, at the streets, and Edd knows, suddenly and clearly, what’s happened to Matt.

“It was Matt. He was- he was bloodied and bound and I didn’t-” Tord’s voice breaks.

He shudders in a breath, closes his eyes. There’s smears of shadows beneath his eyes, lines on his face.

“Yesterday, we got a video.”

The guy steps forward; holds up a disk, and inserts it into the video player, and there’s a whirr of electronics, a flutter of movement as he turns on the TV and then it hisses on, and there’s _Matt_.

Tom jolts- nearly launches himself off the couch, and there’s a heavy, _prickling_ feel to the air around him, something angry and protective and worried.

Because Matt is a mess.

His nose is broken, twisted to the side, and there’s dried blood stained all over his hoodie, lining the shapes of his face. His eyes are blown wide, and there’s a fear in them that makes Edd’s throat close up, makes his tears sting.

“T- _t_ -Tord,” Matt says, and his voice is stuttering, falling over itself. He’s missing a tooth, and he winces, like speaking is physically _painful_. “He isn’t, uh, happy, with you ign-ignoring him. Please don’t-” he shudders, blinks his eyes. There’s tears gathering there. “Please. You ha-have to respond, plea-please, Tord-”

A shadow falls over Matt- who flinches, an actual violent give of his body, and he holds up his hands, shaking.

“S-s-s _sorry_ , sorry, please d-d-on’t-” there’s blood stained along his hands too, and the shadow steps into the camera’s view, and takes the form of a tall, dark-haired man, who’s smiling almost amicably.

The video pauses.

“His name is Jason,” Tord says, voice quiet and empty once more. “I don’t know exactly what his issue with me is, but he has Matt.”

The video doesn’t start again. Instead silence stretches out, and Edd realises his hands are curled so tightly together there’s half-moon marks in his palms.

“That’s not the end of the video,” Tom says. There’s a thick strain to his voice, like he’s trying to reign himself in.

Like he’s trying not to launch across the room and beat Tord into a pulp.

Tord hesitates.

Trades another glance with the other guy, and then slowly shakes his head.

“It’s- you don’t want to see that.”

“Turn it back on,” Tom says.

“Tom,” Tord steps closer, and his face is- it’s open and _bare_ , and there’s something there, something horrified, and it’s like he’s trying to protect them. “You don’t want to experience that. Trust me.”

And Tom is up- is _moving_ , and he’s in Tord’s face in the blink of an eye, hands fisted in his uniform, teeth bared. “Except I fucking _don’t_!”

“You _betrayed_ us, Tord!” he snaps, and they’re nose to nose. “And don’t think I didn’t hear what Matt said- you _ignored it_ , didn’t you? Ignored him when he _needed you_ , so tell me-” he lets go, abrupt and sudden, so angry he’s shaking. “Why should I _trust you_?”

Tord can’t answer.

“Just play it,” Edd says, and he knows he sounds faint- sounds scared. “Please Tord. We need to see it.”

And Tord gives.

Edd can see it, in the way his shoulders slump and how he looks away; how he presses a hand to his mouth, and it’s the first time Edd realises his right hand is mechanic, is a prosthetic, and that’s just another thing, isn’t it- another wound to hide and ignore.

“Okay,” Tord says, and gestures to his soldier.

The video hiccups back to life.

The man- Jason- rounds Matt’s side, claps a hand on his shoulder; Matt flinches, breath strangling in his throat.

“That was good,” he says, and he sounds _upbeat_. “But it’s not over yet.”

And just like that he hauls Matt upright, and Matt _whines_ , fear clear on his face, and he’s being dragged off camera, and he’s _begging_ , Edd realises. A stream of panicked words, stumbling into each other, and Edd can barely hear it over the rush in his head.

“Now!” Jason proclaims, and there’s a rustle of movement- Matt, begging and whining and sounding so fucking _terrified_. “You might be wondering what I’m doing. But, you see-” and there’s a patter of feet, and the camera turns. “There must be a punishment for your mistakes, Tord.”

Matt’s laid out on a table. A clean, big, steel table, and his right arm is stretched out horizontally, buckled down with tight straps. All of him is buckled down, in fact- his legs, his other arm, his throat and midriff. He’s completely strapped to the table.

“What is-” Tom’s voice is faint. Horrified.

Jason steps back into the camera’s view, and he’s holding a _saw_.

“No,” Edd says, below his breath, the word taken out of him. “No, _no_ -”

But there’s no stopping this- Jason doesn’t pause, doesn’t drag it out. He just walks right up to Matt, brushes his knuckles across his cheek, and then grips the flesh just above Matt’s elbow with one hand.

“Not gonna count to three, pretty boy,” he says, almost fondly, and Matt sobs, shakes his head, and Edd can see the frantic twist of it, strands of hair tangling together.

And without warning- without preparation, Jason places the saw at the place just below Matt’s elbow, and _cuts_.

Matt screams.

He _screams_ , toe-curlingly and hoarse, and Edd claps his hands over his ears, hunches down, because this is _sick_ , this is _horrible_ -

Matt is screaming, and it’s ringing in Edd’s head, in his bones, and Matt’s voice is _shaking_ , and Edd can’t-

He looks up.

Matt is trying to arch his back off the table, and there’s blood running rivets down the table, and there’s a _noise-_ the sound of cutting into meat, of flesh tearing and breaking, and bile burns in Edd’s throat.

Jason laughs, and he leans back slightly, grin so wide it fills his face with teeth. “Wow, this is- a lot harder than I expected!” he says, and lifts his hand from Matt’s flesh.

He reaches out, pats Matt’s cheek- leaves smears of fresh, red blood on his face, and Matt is sobbing, gasping for breath.

“How long?” Edd forces out, throat tight with horror and the need to vomit.

Tord looks at him- Jason goes back to sawing, and this time there’s the _sound_ of actual sawing, and Matt makes a weird, strangled sound, like the scream is catching in his throat.

“Not long,” Tord says, and Jason laughs- he’s cutting into bone now, and Edd can see the flash of white beneath red and pink, and the table is wet with blood, and it’s dripping over the edges, splattering across the ground.

Matt stops screaming. Instead he just makes strangled, choking noises, and his left hand is clawing at the table- his nails are missing, Edd realises, almost emptily, and Matt’s leaving red streaks along the table, long claws marks from his fingers.

Edd feels numb.

Tom is quiet beside him, and Edd knows that he’s tense as a spring, is digging his claws into the couch and ripping it up.

He can’t really care.

There’s a- snap. Or a crack or _something_ , and Jason pulls back, laughs loud and bright and-

It’s over.

The bone saw clatters against the ground as Jason throws it aside, and then, like it’s _funny_ , he reaches down to pull up Matt’s arm.

He waves it at the camera.

“Don’t ignore me again, Tord boy,” he says, smiling, and Matt isn’t making any sound, is just _lying there_ , bleeding out on the table, and the video stops.

Just like that.

Edd lifts his hands. Presses them to his mouth, and he can barely feel the touch of it; can barely feel his palms against his lips, can barely feel _anything_.

“This is your fault.”

Tord doesn’t even flinch.

Tom draws himself up- slow, fluid. His presence is heavy, thick. He’s angry. Furious. Edd should stop him.

Edd doesn’t, because he’s too busy hunching over his knees, breath shaking in his chest, shuddering in his ears.

“This is your _fault_!” Tom screams, and launches himself clear across the room, collides with Tord in a flurry of movement- the soldier draws out a gun, quick as the blink of an eye, and Edd can’t _breathe_.

“You did this!” Tom’s got Tord on the ground, has him pinned down, and he’s not even hitting him- just screaming in his face, tears dripping down his face. “You killed Matt, you killed Jon, you- you’re _toxic_! This is _your fault_!”

Edd can feel the warmth of his breath against his palms, can feel the rise and fall of his chest- but there’s no air, nothing but empty space and Matt’s dead.

Matt’s _dead_.

There’s a strangled sound in his chest, a pitch rising in his bones. He’s crying, he thinks, because there’s wetness on his knuckles, and Edd feels the way his mouth shapes itself into a scream.

“Edd-” there’s a hand on him, an almost-familiar voice in his ear. “Edd, _breathe_.”

He shakes his head. Wishes he could tell the stranger that he _can’t_ \- that there’s no air, that his lungs aren’t working. That Matt’s dead.

“ _Tord_ ,” the voice says, and it’s sharp, serious. “Edd’s having a panic attack.”

“Fuck- I can’t move, Paul-”

The hand on his shoulder leaves, and for a second Edd is lost- there’s nothing _there_ , just him and the lack of air, the great emptiness ballooning out in his chest and eating him whole, and-

Then there’s two hands on his wrists, a gentle murmur in his head.

“It’s okay,” the voice says. “You need to breathe, Edd- you’re having a panic attack.”

He shakes his head. “C-c-can’t-”

The hands on his wrist gently tugs his palms away from his mouth, and he shudders, vaguely aware of his body hitching around him.

“Can you try? You need to breathe in for four seconds, Edd. I can show you.”

His hand is pressed up against someone’s chest, and he knows this- he knows what he’s supposed to do, he-

He nods his head.

“Okay. Follow my lead.”

And he breathes in- the chest beneath Edd’s hand rises, slow and steady, and Edd tries to copy it, to follow along, and it burns in his chest, hurts-

The chest beneath his palm falls, and Edd exhales, shudders.

Inhale.

Exhale.

He doesn’t know how long it takes. His world fades out into nothing but this; but breathing, in and out, and eventually there’s air in his lungs, and cotton in his head, and Edd sways back into awareness, a palm on the soldier’s chest.

He blinks.

The soldier looks back at him, steady as can be.

“You’re Paul,” Edd says, vaguely aware he must sound woozy and disoriented. Which works, because that’s how he _feels_.

Paul snorts. “Yeah,” he says, and lets go off Edd’s wrist. “Nice to meet you, Edd.”

Edd almost smiles, almost feel a brush of something content, when he remembers- the video, the blood, _Matt_ -

“Matt-!” he strangles out, and he stumbles upright- nearly falls right back again, if it weren’t for Paul surging up to catch him and steady him. “What- is he-?”

“Matt’s alive.”

Edd peers over Paul’s shoulder, and stares, almost surprised but too tired to really feel it, down at Tord and Tom.

Because they’re still on the floor- Tord sitting upright, a palm against the floor, and Tom is curled up in his lap like a child, back curved and shoulders to his ears, fingers buried in Tord’s uniform.

Edd blinks.

Tord looks evenly back at him, and his uniform is torn with claw marks, small holes where Tom dug in his claws and tore- but there are no bruises on his face, no blood, and Edd can feel the barest brush of bemusement, hidden beneath the turmoil in his gut.

“How do you know that?” he asks, because Tom and Tord’s weird cuddle adventure isn’t particularly important. “The video-”

“Jason _assured_ me,” Tord says, and it sounds flat. “Sent another picture and all.”

Edd bites his lips.

Tord sighs. His face softens, and there’s genuine sadness there, now. Regret.

“Edd, we’re going to get him back.”

Edd looks away. Thinks of the way Matt had flinched, had looked- thinks of the noise he had made, there at the end, and he doesn’t say anything, because it doesn’t matter.

“Okay,” he says, and it’s soft and sad, and Edd knows they won’t ever really get Matt back.

Not after that.


End file.
